Boyfriend From Hell (Falling Angels Saga) by E. Van Lowe

moment… Okay, I’m a romantic. So sue me.
    “Meet me at the food court in the mall,” he said, dragging my thoughts back to the present.
    I hung up without responding. I didn’t need to. We had the psychic connection. He knew I’d be there.
    #
    The mall was about a half mile away. A good walk, and since I was still too young to drive , walking is what it would be.  It was a warm winter afternoon, and my thoughts were once again on the kiss. Throughout the day I’d caught myself running my tongue over the tiny bruise on my lip, conjuring up the feeling of Guy’s lips on mine, and then the sweet sting of the bite. As I walked, the conjuring started all over again. It was perfect for passing the time.
    I was crossing Bell Road, about two blocks from the mall, when a woman on the opposite side of the street caught my attention. A worn cloth shopping bag swung from her arm.  She was returning home from market.  Her graying hair was buried beneath a large kerchief, and yet I recognized her instantly—the old woman from the art gallery who had been staring at my mother.
    Without thinking I scampered across the street. Dodging honking cars amid cries of
“crazy kid,”
I arrived at the curb, a few feet from her. She didn’t look up. Lost in thought, she continued down the block, away from the mall, away from me.
    Guy and the kiss were totally forgotten as visions of the old woman’s eyes transfixed on my mother entered my thoughts. There was a mysterious connection between this woman and the reason Armando was dating my mother. I know—crazy. This was the kind of lunatic thinking that could get a person committed. And yet something, call it intuition, told me I was right.
    She was halfway down the block, shrinking into oblivion when I did something even crazier. I followed her.
     
     

Chapter Twelve
     
     
    I couldn’t believe what I was doing. It was like something out of a James Bond flick. Yet there I was, trailing the old woman down the block. I couldn’t stop myself. Every time I said:
Megan, this is ridiculous. It probably isn’t her, and even if it is her, so what?
Something else inside me said
keep going
.
    I followed at a safe distance, staying at least a half block behind. She never once looked back, so I began following closer.
    My heart was racing, hopped up on adrenaline, about to explode in my chest, and yet something kept pushing me forward.
    After several blocks, we moved into a residential neighborhood of modest single family homes. Mothers sat on lawn chairs in front of open garage doors watching children play, while chatting about soap opera characters as if they were real.
    The old woman stopped at an odd two-story home with a small stoop, the largest house on the street. She set her groceries down at the base of the stoop and took a breather, leaning heavily against the cement post. Quickly I stooped, and began tying my shoe, which was near impossible since I was wearing my pink Puma slides, but she didn’t glance in my direction. Rested, she picked up her bag, climbed the steps, and let herself in.
    Okay, Megan, now what?
     I didn’t have to wait long for an answer. Again without thinking, I moved to the house, up the steps, and rang the doorbell; it was as if I was on autopilot. I waited a few seconds. Nothing.
    Megan, enough of this craziness. You can go now.
    But instead I rang again, and this time I could hear her slowly making her way to the door.
    “I’m coming,” she called in a heavy Spanish accent.
    Spanish like Armando. His mother? That would explain why she was staring so hard at
my
mother.  Mothers are so protective of their sons. She disapproved of the way Armando and my mom were chumming it up.
    Hey, I’m with you, lady.
    The door opened. The kerchief was off, revealing her shiny black and gray hair. She gazed at me with dark eyes.
    Uh-oh. She recognizes me.
    “Yes? What you want?” Annoyance, but not a hint of recognition was in her voice, raspy from too many years